


Stability

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Post-War, but doesn't care, no daenerys romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Following the victory against the Night King and the revelation of Jon's parentage, Queen Daenerys proposes an idea to bring stability to realm and secure Jon's place in the North.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random fic I wrote in my spare time given I was on a more "straight forward" jonsa kick. 
> 
> Just a note that Jon didn't romance Daenerys in this one. He did bend the knee but only AFTER the dead were defeated, as agreed. 
> 
> (so no knee bending for nothing)

It was a common-enough saying regarding those of Targaryen heritage; do not wake the dragon. It was long said that those of that House had explosive temperaments, as though they were a hybrid of man and the dragons they rode. That when angered, they were a fearsome enough sight to witness.

Jon certainly felt that now, raging inside of him. “Are you mad?!” he exclaimed, looking to Daenerys with a frown, “this is your grand plan to secure the future? Marry me to my _sister_?!”

Daenerys did not turn around from the window as she took in his words. “It is not my plan only, and you know that.” she replied, shaking her head softly. “But it is the best plan for both of us, Jon. For the North and South alike.”

“Are you hearing this?” Jon raged, turning to Sansa. “I...I promised to protect you,” he whispered, reaching out and grasping her hand firmly, “and if that means from being forced into any marriage demand – by anyone – then I will.”

It was then that the Queen turned to face the pair, the bruises and scars on her face healing nicely. She groaned, easing her way towards them, the extend of her injuries causing her to wobble several times. Jon reached out and took hold of her by her healthy arm. “You should know that it was Lady Stark who first broached the idea to me.” she added with a slight nod.

The dragon surged within him again as Jon turned back to his sister in disbelief. “You're lying.” he stammered.

Sansa, who had been quiet until now, finally looked between them before responding. “No, Jon. I brought the idea to the Queen after Bran told us. I have thought long and hard about it – and I feel that for the benefit of everyone, it would work best.”

A bitter laugh echoed in the room. “How would it work best, Sansa? You are my sister -”

“Cousin.” Sansa corrected him with a sad smile as she walked to the window. The snows were beginning to melt and the first signs of the thaw were seen as the soldiers and servants of House Stark went about their business.

Daenerys patted Jon's arm as she saw his face fall. “Even with your pledge of fealty – as you and I agreed – there will always be those who see you as the rightful heir to the throne...and those who see you as a possible alternative ruler when they disagree with decisions I make.” she explained as he approached Sansa.

“Sansa -” Jon pleaded.

Sansa took hold of his hand and squeezed it tight, mimicking the earlier gesture. “I want to do this, Jon. No one is forcing me. The Queen is correct; I brought her the idea.” she added further, “and it is a good match. Not one of love, of course but...one that will bring stability to the realm. To our home.”

Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. “There must be another way,” he groaned. “some kind of royal decree, or an annulment – anything but this. Sansa...you've endured horrific husbands before and had yourself forced into relations against your will. This is....this is no different!”

“It IS different, Jon!” she shot back, her face growing red. “I know you will not hurt me or inflict tortures upon my body as Ramsay or torment me as Joffrey. You will not manipulate me as Littlefinger. You...you're too honourable to do any of those things.” she insisted.

“There is no other way, Jon.” Daenerys counseled. “As Rhaegar's son and lawful heir you will always have a stronger claim to the Iron Throne. As long as you exist as Aegon Targaryen -” she began before Jon silenced her with an angry glare.

“That name means NOTHING to me,” he growled, slamming his hand into the wall. Jon hated the fact some used that name around him – it was and forever would be a stranger to him. “I am Jon Snow.”

Daenerys nodded, readjusting the sling on her arm. “It is still possible that some will try to use your name to tear the realm apart! What we propose stops that from happening.”

“Please Jon,” Sansa begged, “hear us out at least.”

A sharp pain shot up his arm as he shook his hand, grumbling in annoyance. “Speak, but don't pretend like I will do what you want.”

 

* * *

 

He couldn't speak. Not now, not after what they have proposed. Jon drank deep of his mug, shaking his head. It was an appalling suggestion, even if it was made by Sansa. _No,_ he resolved. _I can't do it. Not to her, not after all she has been through._

Sansa spoke candidly of the horrors she'd endured in King's Landing. Of the beatings, mental tortures and torments of the cruel Joffrey. Jon remembered when he first heard the stories she told – it was enough to make his blood boil, both in anger at the southerners and their deceitful ways but also at himself for not leaving the Wall, not going south to fight with Robb.

_If I was there I could have made a difference._

Even though he knew that was unlikely – it still made the feelings of blame rise to the surface.

 _Why did Bran have to tell me?_ He raged, finishing the last of his ale and sliding the mug across the table. _He could've kept this to himself, concealed it for the good of the realm._ It was a bitter pill to swallow, indeed – even if his brother had done it because he “deserved to know the truth.”

“Fuck the truth,” Jon mumbled bitterly.

He reached down and ran his hand along Ghost's fur, the direwolf snoring peacefully at his feet. _At least you don't care,_ Jon smiled.

He and the North had honored their agreement. Was that not enough? Fight beside us and help us defeat the Others, and I will bend the knee. Not before. Daenerys had done that – and taken severe losses in the process – but now, more drama and intrigue wormed its way into his life...

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Go away,” he shouted.

“Jon, it's me.” came Sansa's familiar tone.

He felt his palms growing sweaty. “...Come in.” he finally said after a moment of silence.

Sansa was wearing the same dress she'd sewn at Castle Black – the Stark direwolf emblazoned on the upper part of her chest. She looked regal and commanding; indeed, like a proper Lady of Winterfell.

She studied Jon as she took a seat next to him. “Can we talk?” she asked, reaching out for his hand. Despite his anger, he made no effort to resist her touch; it was, frankly welcome at this point in time.

“I wish Bran hadn't said anything.” he said with a groan, his eyes aching from the close candle on the table. “It would have made things much more...simple, shall we say?”

“You deserved the truth, Jon.” Sansa assured him, “even if it was not what you or anyone really expected. Now we just have to navigate our way through the storm.”

He'd have laughed if possible at her words. “Aye, the storm of 'marry your former half-sister to avoid civil war'. Real simple, that one.” he japed.

“Jon, look at me.” she commanded; _damn her_ , he thought as he raised his head. She still has that tone. He knew it well; the authoritative determination he'd seen in her since they reunited. “I...I know this isn't something easy. For either of us. But you and I....we know our duty, to the realm and each other.” she explained, pulling her gloves off, “and despite the unique situation we will be in, I know that the North will find it an acceptable compromise.”

“Even if it was that simple,” he replied, “the marriage is one thing. But bed you? Bed my own sister? Get you with child? Force you to...to endure all of this for what? My sake? Gods, I would rather leave South right now than subject you to this.” _She has suffered enough – why must this keep happening?_

Sansa squeezed his hand tight in her own. “You are not subjecting me to anything.” she insisted, “this is something I want to do. Not just for you, but for us. For the family. Arya would follow you South, do you know that? She despises them but loves you enough to go. And Bran? Bran holds the knowledge of the ages in his head – but he is still our brother.” she rose to her feet, pacing several steps around the room.

“As for marriage and the bedding – Jon, I have endured Ramsay Bolton; a monster without measure. I have been cut and beaten and violated. But I know...with you it will be different.” she looked to him, her eyes focusing intently upon his own. “I would rather marry someone who is kind and gentle than have a crude, fat and balding nobleman of some distant bloodline sleaze his way into our home.”

Jon smirked at that. “That's no way to talk about Lord Glover.” he joked, which drew a laugh from her.

“Jon, we need to rebuild. Winter is over, the Night King is gone – but the North has suffered so much fighting and war and death.” Sansa lamented, looking to the window. “a united Winterfell – you and I – could bring that stability. Bring the people hope.”

She knelt before him; the gesture caused Jon to shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Please, Jon. Let us keep the North in the hands of House Stark. Now and always.”

 

* * *

“You can't ride from here now.” Jon protested, shaking his head. “You're barely recovered enough to sit a horse.”

Daenerys shrugged, groaning painfully. “I cannot wait for Cersei. My banner-men are barely able to hold the Stormlands as it stands. The Golden Company is breaking their defence. If I don't go now, there won't be a Dragonstone to get back to.”

“Daenerys -”

“Jon, I appreciate your concern. I do. But we are needed in the South now.” she said, climbing into the saddle. Around her, the retinue of bodyguards; some Dothraki and some Targaryen men at arms did the same.

Raising a brow, Jon watched her carefully. “What about the wedding? We agreed it would be in a fortnight.”

She smiled. “I am glad you decided that Sansa's idea had merit. I will send word to you when Cersei is defeated.” Turning away from him, she barked commands in the guttural Dothraki language to the bloodriders, who drew their arakhs and began whooping.

This irked him. He'd agreed to this idea – based mostly on his discussion with Sansa – and now Daenerys was leaving before she could witness it? The situation South was concerning, aye; but she'd told him that the Northern forces could and should remain where they were, and that they would need to be here to rebuild.

_I didn't think it was so bad._

As her retinue departed the gates, Sansa appeared at his side. “She rides back for battle already?” she asked, confusion written on her face.

“Aye. Apparently the ravens from Dragonstone were...concerning enough to leave with what was left.” he replied, watching as the gates were slowly shut behind her.

Sansa nodded. “I am sure Cersei will not enjoy facing down an angry dragon.” That bought a smirk to her face; Rhaegal had grown some since coming North, and Sansa watched as the great beast let out a roar as it soared above the clouds, following after its mother.

Jon looked skeptical. “She has one left. I'd be careful if I were her.”

“It is not our concern, Jon.” she replied, taking his hand. “We have to concern ourselves with rebuilding – and our coming ceremony, of course.”

That brought a groan from Jon. “Don't remind me.”

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Brienne speak about what is to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the positive responses folks, I will do my best to keep this updated!

Sansa watched from the balcony as Jon and Arya continued their sparring. Both were very good; Jon was sturdy and deliberate with his attacks, conserving his strength until an opening was presented while Arya was nimble, trying to tire her opponent out while avoiding their blows.

“My Lady,” from beside her, Brienne of Tarth quietly addressed.

Turning around, she looked to her protector and sworn shield. Her injuries had been minor, and the only reminder of battle was a small cloth wrapped around her forehead, covering the worst of the slashes taken in the final attack. “Yes, Brienne?”

Bowing her head, the knight seemed reluctant to speak at first. “I mean no disrespect, my lady – but is this truly the wisest course?” she asked, looking towards Jon. “I...understand that the truth of his heritage makes him your cousin, but will the rest of the North accept such a betrothal?”

Sansa had the same doubts, personally. She knew how prickly the lords could – and would – be; they were certainly none too happy at the revelation. But in order to forestall a full-scale revolt against Jon, she had to act. “They will, if only to placate us.” she explained, watching Jon launch into a series of blows. “as they know their own positions are dependant upon a stable and secure North. And for all their blustering I do not think that they would like to see a southern-backed candidate become their warden.”

Nodding, Brienne looked away – though she still wore the same expression of worry. Sansa knew why – it was plain to see. “You are worried about your family.” she noted as that made the woman flinch.

“My father has declared for House Targaryen and our family's soldiers fight now against the Golden Company.” Brienne lamented, “yet I am here, safe in the North. I should be there, leading the fight in my father's name.”

Sansa nodded. “You fought valiantly against the dead with us, Brienne. I can think of no greater warrior of our age. As your lady – I give you my permission to leave.” she smiled softly, patting her arm.

Brienne looked mortified. “I cannot leave you, Lady Sansa.” she protested with a shake of her head, “I am sworn to you and to House Stark. I cannot abandon my oath to...to run off and partake in other battles. Especially now.”

 _She worries for him_ , Sansa realized. “Ser Jaime will be fine – Maester Wolkan says his wounds are healing and it will not be long until he wakes.” she assured her, trying to ease the torment in her mind.

A flush crept up her face. “I am not worried about Ser Jaime. I know he will recover...” she coughed, unable to meet Sansa's gaze. “...but now that you are preparing to wed, I must be here to ensure your safety.”

* * *

Turning back to face the training yard, Sansa allowed herself to smile. Given the prospects of marrying Jon – someone who had fought for her, for their home, for their very survival – or some no-name lord come to storm the castle and steal the ancestral seat of the North – the choice was clear. _Jon is Jon_ , she recalled telling Brienne. _He will keep me safe._

Arya and Jon had stopped sparring, and were looking up towards her.

“Gawking at your husband already, Sansa?” Arya taunted with a snort, “Gods, do it when I am not around!”

Her sister was taking the news well; given how close she was with Jon, Sansa expected more resistance or horror when informed of their plan. But she had embraced it as a way to allow Jon to stay in the North; she'd been livid when the suggestions were made that he leave and angrily demanded to know who's heads she would have to take.

“It will be strange at first, obviously.” Arya had said, “but I love Jon and I love you equally. At least this way, I don't have to worry about some stranger putting his grubby hands on you.”

Sansa laughed. “Don't stop hitting each other on my part.” she japed. Jon was – as usual – still hesitant about the whole idea, but he'd consented to send the ravens out to their banner-men informing them of the betrothal. That was – what? One week ago now?

Jon was not an unattractive man, she blushed; even still, it was important to put such trivial things aside when planning a marriage of such nature. More important to her was their family and their legacy; the legacy of Winterfell.

They would make it work.

She remembered the stories of her childhood; something that felt as though it were a lifetime ago. How she had wanted above all to go South, to marry a knight-lord and bear his children, to live the way the ladies of those stories had.

In her own way, she was living a story of her youth – just with different characters. Jon was the hero who she would marry, and Winterfell was the castle that their child would inherit. There was no going south, however; she loathed any mere mention of it and would rather run to the Land of Always Winter then venture south of the Neck again.

* * *

“I wonder how father would feel.” she whispered.

Brienne looked to her. “About what has happened, my lady?”

She nodded, watching as Arya flipped her way around Jon, trying to catch him in the flank. “He loved Jon as his own son – bastard born, but a son none the less – no matter how much my mother discouraged it.” The regret in her voice was audible even now; Sansa felt a great sense of shame at the way she'd treated him as children.

“I cannot presume to speak for your father, my lady – but your lady mother told me that he was an honorable man.” she replied, her own eyes fixated on the pair below, “and I believe he would be proud of all that has been accomplished. Not just by Jon – Lord Jon, but by you and your siblings."

Sansa said nothing, opting to lean on the railing. “Interesting times ahead for us both, Lady Brienne.”

“I have no doubt of your victory, my lady.” Brienne placed a hand on the railing next to Sansa's own.

“Our victory.” she corrected, “You are part of our household now too.”

* * *

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa speak further about their nuptials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit more fluff for you guys!

“Most of the replies have been positive, so there is that.” Jon said, placing the last of the scrolls down. A dozen or so of them lay scattered on the high table as he ran a hand through his hair, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

Sansa patted him on the back, trying to soothe his nerves. “They are eager for stability, Jon. Like I told you.” she repeated, gesturing him to his seat.

Taking his seat, Jon nodded. “Aye, I suppose I would be too.” he admitted, tapping his fingers on the table. “Looks like you were right, as always.” he shot her a faint smile.

Laughing at his remark, she gathered up the scrolls as she took her seat beside him. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell share a place at the high table, she recalled from her lady mother and father's seating lessons. “Has there been any news from the Queen?” she asked, cautiously trying to change the subject.

Jon was still stressed out and anxious regarding the wedding – it was in one week, and his nerves were still playing up. Sansa knew he would still do his duty and carry it out, but she was doing everything possible to assure him.

Holding up a seventh scroll, he threw it onto the table. “The Tyrell forces managed to hold off another attack from the Golden Company, but even with the Dothraki on their side they are facing a long and drawn out war.” he noted, sighing contently as the fire of the hearth warmed his weary bones.

“I am just glad I was able to convince her not to force us south.” he concluded, drawing a raised brow from Sansa.

“What do you mean?” she asked, curious. With the war drawing into a stalemate between the Iron Throne and Daenerys, it was a wonder that Jon had been able to demand and gain such a concession – considering the circumstances.

* * *

He rose to his feet, looking every bit like her father. _Still, I will need not think of him as such,_ she knew. _He will be my husband before long._ “She knows how we've suffered. Between Robb's campaign and our own – not to mention our battles with the dead – there would be no way for us to provide any meaningful support. So, I managed to gain us a breather.” he exhaled, looking down at the table as he tapped it.

“The Queen agreed that our people could stay here to rebuild and keep order. Make sure no deserters or brigands try to take advantage of our weakened position. And in time – be it a day, a week, a year, decade, century or what have you – there will come a time that House Targaryen will call upon us, and we will answer to repay the debt.” he grimaced slightly as he concluded. “Not the most ideal of arrangements – but considering...”

Sansa took the news without moving, pondering the words Jon spoke. “Risky.” she said after a pause, “but it could potentially work in our favor.”

She had admittedly been somewhat disappointed at the bargain stuck by Jon when he went to Dragonstone – that he would bend the knee after the dead were defeated with the Queen's help – but even she had to confess that without the armies of the south, there would be no North left standing save a wasteland of dead.

“It gives her leverage over us in the future.” she winced, looking up at him. Jon was studying her reaction, carefully focused on her eyes and lips. “but it keeps us out of this war and allows us a chance to rebuild. When she does call upon us, we can provide more then just old men and green boys.”

Jon smiled. “My thoughts exactly.” Returning to his seat, he took one of Sansa's hands and placed it to his lips.

Sansa felt herself blush at the action; this was new to Jon, she realized. The heat in her face began to dissipate as she watched him nervously fidgeting with his free hand. “I just wanted to tell you Sansa – that...as your husband, as much as it is still a great reluctance to me...I will be good to you.” he decreed.

For her part, Sansa smiled, offering the slightest hint of a laugh. “I never expected anything else, Jon.” she joked, causing him to break out into laughter as he realized what he'd said. “Still, I appreciate the gesture.”

* * *

 

The echoing of footsteps interrupted their conversation. Looking up from the table, the pair spied Maester Wolkan shuffling into the hall. He offered a bow as he approached. “A thousand pardons for interrupting, My Lord, my Lady...” he exclaimed, breathing hard as though he'd just ran there.

“It's quite alright Maester,” Jon waved a hand dismissively, “what news do you bring?”

Wolkan nodded, exhaling sharply. “Ser Davos has just returned from White Harbor and brings two missives from Lord Tyrion. One for Lady Sansa, and one for you, My Lord.” he placed the scrolls on the table and quickly shuffled away.

They both looked to the scrolls. Sansa hesitantly reached for one, examining the seal.

Jon, on the other hand had already opened the one closest to him. “Ah, this one is yours.” he said, handing it to her.

Sansa nodded, taking the opened scroll and handing hers to him. She began to read, mouthing the words to herself in the process.

An audible groan was Jon's response not a moment after starting to read his. Sansa looked to him, confused. “Bad news?” she asked, watching as he threw the scroll on the table angrily.

“No...” he sighed, head in hands. “The Queen apparently has a condition for our wedding.”

That peaked her interest. Sansa put down her scroll and motioned for him to continue. _I wonder what she wants of us now_ , her mind asked as anxiety began to well inside her. _What sort of agreement would need to be struck?_

Jon picked up the scroll before dropping it once more. “Do you remember that dragon pin? The one Grey Worm wore.” he asked, motioning to his neck.

“Yes...” Sansa nodded, “what of it?”

* * *

“Apparently she has it kept in the room she used as her chambers while here – and expects me to wear it at the ceremony. 'a symbol of linking your blood as one' Tyrion calls it.” he grumbled, leaning back into his chair. “I've half a mind to write back and tell him I won't wear the damned thing.”

A sense of relief and pity washed through her; relief that the condition was rather trivial – and pity at Jon's clear frustration wtih it. “Jon...” she counselled, taking his hand, “considering what else the Queen could have asked us...it is far less important then you may think.”

Jon nodded, still wearing a scowl. “I know, but it...it is the point. That is not a part of me. It never has been or will be. I was raised here – my family is here.” he insisted, “yet they try to make me embrace a heritage not of me.”

She stroked his hand with her fingers gently; it helped to relax him, he'd once told her. “A sign of respect and understanding – nothing more. If nothing else, wear it for me?” she smiled, shrugging her shoulders. “I think it would look good on you.”

“Fine. For you, I will. Consider it your one and only wedding gift.”

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding and aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's part four. i might continue this story in another fic later on, but thanks for reading!

Stepping into the godswood made Jon's palms begin to sweat. His eyes darted around, looking at the half-dozen figures in attendance. After only a few steps, he paused to exhale – the nerves were beginning to return, and in greater intensity. _Damn it,_ he cursed himself, _I thought we had this handled!_

“Come on Jon,” Arya called, mischief in her eyes, “time for the big ceremony!”

Making his way up to where she stood, Jon smiled ruefully at her. “Consider it lucky you don't have to wed, little sister.” he whispered, shaking his head softly, “although, we do receive quite a few letters offering younger sons...”

Arya rolled her eyes, playfully swatting him on the arm. “Ass.”

Jon looked to Bran, who sat on the opposite side of the tree alongside Sam. “This is your fault, you know.” he teased, tapping his fingers on the arms of the wheelchair. “If you had kept your mouth shut I wouldn't have to do this.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak – but Bran responded first, offering the first laugh Jon had heard since their reunion. It was shrill and hollow; yet it was still an encouraging sign that his brother was able to find some emotion again.

The sight of his laugh helped to settle Jon's nerves, and he relaxed ever slightly. “To be serious Bran – I appreciate you telling me. Even if it was...is...hard to accept.” he confessed.

Bran nodded. “I never intended to hurt you, Jon.” he stated matter of factually, “but you deserved to know the truth about who you are. That is all.”

Sam – who had joined the pair at Bran's chair – agreed. “At least you are taking this in stride Jon. It hasn't changed who you are as a person; the man who saved the world from the Night King and all that! It just makes you even more...shall I say, mysterious?”

“Next wedding is yours and Gilly's, I swear to the old gods.” he japed, laughing as Sam's face paled.

It had taken him some time to come to terms with Bran's revelation. Still, Jon was confident in who he was now – the same person he had always been. His home was here; his people were here and his family was here. Rhaegar Targaryen was a name from history; a man who made foolish choices that saw the realm plunged into civil war.

All the same, he made sure to leave blue roses on his mother's statue in the crypts – and lit a candle in his chambers for both her and his father.

“I'm glad you are here, Bran.” Jon squeezed his brother's hand. “Three-eyed raven or not, you'll always be my little brother. Climbing and getting a scolding from your mother.”

Bran nodded. “It is...getting easier to be who I am now, with the Night King gone. It's difficult to explain, but I feel more...in control of who I am.” he noted, looking towards Sam. “Sam being here has certainly helped. He keeps my thoughts orderly.”

* * *

Maester Wolkan entered the area, bowing towards Jon. “Lady Stark is ready to begin, my lord.” he informed, taking his place over by the heart tree.

Briskly Jon strode to his spot at the tree, smoothing out his tunic and readjusting the Targaryen pin one final time. “Let's get this over with..” he groaned, the nerves starting anew.

Sansa's dress was another simple, blue and grey one that Jon recognized as similar to the one she'd made while at Castle Black. Still, the way she carried herself, even now on such a nerve-wracking day made her look as always a proper lady of Winterfell.

It wasn't long before she stood at his side, offering him a smile. “Are you ready?” she asked, looking to the heart tree.

Jon nodded. “I suppose I am. Are you?”

She nodded. “Do you like the dress?” she inquired, inviting him to look. As he did so, Jon noticed the direwolf emblazoned near her chest. _I like the wolf bit,_ he recalled from her former attire at Castle Black.

“I like the wolf bit.” he repeated, causing her to laugh.

* * *

Jon sat at the edge of their bed, staring down at his feet. “So...this is what it feels like, hm?”

Sansa – who had slipped out of her wedding attire and into a nightdress – sat down next to him. “Being married? I couldn't say, Jon – I am not a man in your position.” she teased, watching as his expression remained unchanged. “I suppose it does feel like this, yes.”

He turned to look at her, noticing at once the scars lining her shoulders. A surge of anger took him as he thought of her, his now-wife, being violated and abused and traumatized by the likes of Ramsay Bolton in this very room – he hoped the monster's death was painful. “Well...I know it is not as glamorous a wedding as the southerners do...” he said, watching as she scoffed.

“I had one of those, Jon.” she reminded him, recalling her wedding to Tyrion. “and besides, those dreams of knights and flowers and chivalry are just dreams of someone who is no longer here.”

That hurt his heart. Sansa was always a bright, happy and idealistic girl; even if she did not bother much with him, due to her burning desire to please her mother, she was still always doing what she could to become the proper lady.

 _Though I suppose we've all lost that innocence of summer,_ he reflected. “We don't have to do anything. You know that.” he said, firmness in his tone. “Not now or ever. Damn the rules, Sansa – we are wed in the eyes of the old gods. That should be enough.”

She crawled to her side of the bed, laying down on her back. “Tonight, we can just enjoy the silence – the safety, together.” she offered, patting his pillow. “Just us, Jon.”

Nodding, Jon followed after her, settling into the bed. “Tomorrow, I was thinking – we should start releasing the grain stores back to the rest of the Houses.” he suggested, mind swimming with ideas for the North. “Now that winter is over – thank the gods for that – the other houses will need their supplies to feed their folk.”

Sansa nodded, taking hold of his hand once again. “I agree.” she replied softly, looking to him with a kind of pleading expression. “Can you hold my hand tonight, Jon?” she asked, after a moment's pause. “I...I want to feel that connection with someone who I now call my husband. Not to just be violated and savaged.”

“Of course!” he said instantly, squeezing her hand tight. “I am right here, Sansa. No one will hurt you.”

His eyes grew heavy after that, his body begging for sleep – it was exhausted from the constant stress of the day's events. “Goodnight, Sansa...” he mumbled, barely able to maintain his lucidity.

She smiled at him, her own eyes beginning to close. “Goodnight, Jon...my knight in silk pajamas.” she snorted.

* * *

 

 


End file.
